Following the Road

The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings, Bridgerton and whatever is my obsession at the moment.

[justfollowtheroad]

MASTERLIST

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The Hobbit Masterlist

[its-me-em28]

[perfectfeelings]

“Standing alone is better than standing with people who hurt you.”

— Unknown

[pantserspen]

How to Fix Underwriting

1. Slow down at emotionally important moments.

Big emotions need space to land. If a scene feels rushed, pause the plot briefly to show how the moment affects the character.

2. Add reactions, not explanations.

Instead of explaining what a character feels, show it through physical responses, hesitation, or small actions that reveal emotion naturally.

3. Ground every scene in the senses.

If a scene feels thin, add one or two sensory details—sound, texture, smell, or temperature—to make the moment feel lived-in.

4. Let thoughts interrupt action.

A line of internal thought can deepen a scene without slowing it too much. Thoughts show stakes, fear, longing, or conflict beneath the action.

5. Expand consequences, not events.

You don’t need more things to happen—you need to show what matters. Focus on how events change relationships, decisions, or self-perception.

6. Strengthen setting where emotion peaks.

The environment should echo or contrast the emotion of the scene. Setting is not decoration—it’s emotional reinforcement.

7. Add specific details instead of general ones.

Underwriting often relies on vague language. Swap “they argued” for one sharp line of dialogue or a specific breaking point.

8. Let dialogue breathe.

Short dialogue exchanges without pauses can feel flat. Add beats—silence, gestures, interruptions—to give the conversation weight.

9. Show transitions between scenes.

If scenes jump too quickly, readers feel disoriented. A brief transition helps establish time, mood, and emotional continuity.

10. Clarify stakes early in the scene.

If readers don’t know what can be lost, scenes feel empty. Make sure the character wants something specific and fears losing it.

11. Use the “what are they feeling right now?” check.

After each major beat, ask what emotion is dominant in that moment. If it’s missing on the page, the scene is likely underwritten.

12. Expand scenes that feel “too clean.”

If a scene resolves too neatly or quickly, it probably needs more tension. Messy emotions and unresolved feelings add depth.

[batbugenergy]

if i go crazy (still call me 'superman'?)

pairing: clark kent x reader—superman x reader

summary: you know he would never hurt anyone, yet that is never enough. clark kent—superman—is constantly reminded that he isn't human, that he could break at any moment. what happens when that break nearly happens?

word count: 4.6K

extra: not beta read, we die like real men. i'm rly proud of this one so pls be nice okay

main masterlist

you learn about the video the same way you learn about most catastrophes: from the way the newsroom goes quiet all at once.

not the productive quiet—no. this is the kind where keyboards stall mid-clack, where someone exhales too loudly and everyone hears it. the kind of silence that presses against your ears until it pops.

“hey,” someone mutters. “is that—”

your phone buzzes before they finish the sentence.

BREAKING: LEAKED KRYPTONIAN RECORDING APPEARS TO SHOW SUPERMAN’S PARENTS CLAIMING HE WAS SENT TO EARTH TO ‘RULE’ HUMANITY. 

you don’t react right away. you just stare at the headline like it might rearrange itself into something less radioactive if you give it time.

across the bullpen, clark kent freezes.

it’s subtle—blink-and-you-miss-it subtle—but you’ve worked beside him long enough to notice the way his shoulders go rigid, the way his hands hover uselessly over his keyboard like he’s forgotten what they’re for.

you watch him swallow.

someone turns up the volume on a laptop. tinny alien acoustics fill the room—crystalline echoes, a language that isn’t meant for human throats. subtitles crawl along the bottom of the screen.

—to fulfill his destiny— —earth will kneel— —he will lead them—

a nervous laugh breaks out near the copy desk. someone mutters, “well. that’s not great.”

clark stands so abruptly his chair skids backward.

“i—uh,” he says, already grabbing his coat. his voice cracks, just a little. “chief probably wants—”

“clark,” perry calls from his office doorway, phone already glued to his ear. his gaze flicks to you, sharp and knowing. “don’t go far.”

you and clark lock eyes for half a second.

something passes between you then—panic, maybe, or something quieter and worse. a shared understanding that the ground just shifted and neither of you knows where it’s going to settle.

you’ve taken walks around the world with him before. late nights, stakeouts, quiet coffee runs where the city feels like it’s holding its breath. you’ve watched him carry the weight of things he never talks about. you’ve watched him watch the world like he’s afraid it might slip out of orbit if he blinks.

you feel it now, that same slow pull toward the dark side of the moon.

and there’s nothing you can do.

an hour later, you’re rushing to the rooftop of the daily planets, emotions so jumbled inside you feel like you might spontaneously combust.

the city sprawls beneath you, loud and alive and utterly unaware of how fragile its faith is.

superman lands behind you without a sound.

you don’t turn right away. you already know he’s there—the air changes when he arrives, like the world is paying attention.

“thanks for agreeing to this,” you say instead, steady. professional. you hold your recorder like a shield.

“you asked,” he replies. it’s clark’s voice, stripped of softness. lower. measured. every syllable carefully weighed like it might be used as evidence later.

you turn.

he looks the same. of course he does. blue suit, red cape, emblem bright against his chest like a target. but there’s something in his eyes tonight—something raw and unsettled, like a fault line just under the surface.

you’ve seen him upset before. controlled anger. righteous fury. this is different.

this is hurt.

“let’s get into it,” you say, because that’s your job, and because if you hesitate you might never start. “earlier today, a recording surfaced—”

“i’ve seen it,” he says quickly.

you nod. “the video appears to show your biological parents claiming they sent you here to dominate earth. people are scared.”

his jaw tightens.

“are you?” the question slips out before you can stop it.

he studies you for a long moment. when he speaks again, it’s quieter. “no,” he says finally. “i’m not scared. i’m angry.”

you inhale slowly. “because it’s not true.”

“because they’re wrong,” he says, heat flashing now. “because they don’t get to decide who i am.”

the wind tugs at his cape, restless.

you glance at your notes. you already know what’s coming next. the questions people are asking. the ones trending. the ones no one else will dare ask to his face.

you brace yourself.

“people want to know,” you say carefully, “what would happen if the video was true.”

his eyes snap to yours.

“what if,” you continue, heart hammering now, “you woke up one day and decided humanity wasn’t worth saving anymore?”

a muscle jumps in his cheek. “i wouldn’t,” he says immediately.

“but what if you did?”

silence stretches between you, thin as wire.

“i’ve spent all these years, saving metropolis and other cities and countries, proving that i won’t,” he says, voice tight. “why is that not enough?”

you hate this part. you hate that you’re the one holding the knife. you hate that he’s looking at you like you’re the one twisting it. “because people are asking if your morality is conditional,” you say. “if it depends on how we treat you. on whether we disappoint you.”

“i’m not a god,” he snaps.

the sound echoes off the buildings below.

you don’t flinch—but something in your chest does. “i never said you were.”

“no,” he says bitterly. “but they do. every day. either i’m their savior or their executioner. there’s no room for anything in between.” he turns away from you, hands clenched at his sides.

you watch him like this—broad shoulders bowed just slightly, like the weight finally got to him—and something in you aches.

you remember the way clark once stayed up all night helping you fact-check a piece that wasn’t even his. the way he brings you coffee exactly how you like it without ever asking. the way he listens—really listens—like every word you say matters.

you took those things for granted.

“so let me ask you this,” you say softly. “if the world turns on you… if they decide you’re a threat—”

he laughs, sharp and humorless. “they already have.”

“if they push you,” you press, “and they push you… what happens when you finally break?”

he spins back toward you. “is that what you think?” he asks. “that i’m one bad day away from becoming a monster?”

the question lands hard.

you meet his gaze and don’t look away. you’re not sure what to say at first. how do you talk to a god that won’t accept he is one? a god that you can only see as your sweet, nonviolent coworker? “i think you’re strong,” you decide. “and i think you’re human in all the ways that count. and that means you can be hurt.”

his expression falters.

“i think,” you continue, quieter now, “that scares people more than anything.”

the city hums below you. traffic. sirens. life going on, blissfully ignorant.

he exhales, long and shaky.

“i’ve saved this world more times than i can count,” he says. “i’ve picked it up and put it back on solid ground when it stumbled. and still—” his voice breaks. “still they’re asking if i’m their doom.”

you step closer without thinking.

“if you go crazy,” you say, the words trembling on the edge of something too personal, “will you still be superman?”

he looks at you like you’ve just reached inside his chest. “and if i’m alive and well,” he asks quietly, “will you still look at me the same way?”

your heart stutters.

this is the part you’re not supposed to cross. the line between reporter and subject. between truth and something far more dangerous.

you lower your recorder.

“i already do,” you breathe.

for a moment, the world holds its breath.

then—somewhere far below—a cheer rises. someone’s seen him. someone still believes.

superman closes his eyes.

and you realize, with startling clarity, that you might be the only thing keeping him tethered right now.

not his strength.not his powers.

you.

the interview detonates exactly the way you knew it would.

by the time you get back to the daily planet after your break, the building is vibrating—phones ringing off the hook, producers shouting from screens, interns sprinting like they’ve been drafted into a war they didn’t sign up for.

your byline is everywhere.

SUPERMAN DENIES LEAKED KRYPTONIAN CLAIMS: “THEY DON’T GET TO DECIDE WHO I AM.” 

you don’t read the comments. you don’t need to.

you can already hear them in your head.

what if he snaps? what if he’s lying? what if we’re already doomed?

clark is at his desk when you step off the elevator.

clark kent. rumpled suit. glasses slightly crooked. mild-mannered, kansas-born reporter who spills coffee and apologizes too much.

no one is looking at him. no one connects him to the man whose voice cracked on a rooftop an hour ago. that’s the thing that makes your chest ache the most.

you pass his desk without stopping. if you look at him—if you really look—you’re not sure you’ll be able to pretend. and pretending is the only thing keeping him safe.

“hey,” he says softly anyway.

just your name. quiet. almost lost under the noise.

you stop.

from the outside, it probably looks like nothing. two coworkers pausing mid-chaos. a beat too long, maybe—but no one’s counting.

you turn just enough to face him.

his eyes search your face, blue and worried and unmistakably clark, not superman. not the symbol. not the headline.

you lower your voice. “you okay?”

a pause. then, just as quietly: “are you?”

you almost laugh. you almost cry. “i did what i had to,” you sigh.

“i know,” he replies.

the way he says it—no accusation, no resentment—hits harder than if he’d been angry. you grilled him on a rooftop in front of the world. you asked the questions that made his hands shake. and he still trusts you.

that trust feels heavier than anything you asked him to lift.

lois lane materializes at your side like she always does when things get interesting.

“well,” she says, eyes sharp, voice breezy, “you officially broke the internet. again.”

you glance at her.

she’s watching clark too—not like the others, not casually. there’s calculation there. knowing. she knows. she’s known for a while now. longer than you have.

“you didn’t go easy on him,” she adds, tone carefully neutral.

you don’t look away. “i couldn’t.”

clark swallows.

lois studies your face for a second longer, then nods once. approval. or maybe understanding.

“perry wants a follow-up,” she says. “later. not today.”

she turns to clark. “you good?”

he forces a smile. “yeah. just—processing.”

lois squeezes his shoulder, quick and familiar, then walks off.

when she’s gone, the space she leaves behind feels too exposed.

clark clears his throat. “listen, about earlier—”

“don’t,” you interrupt, too fast. you soften your tone. “we can’t. not here.”

his mouth tightens in agreement. he glances around the bullpen, at the oblivious coworkers, the glowing screens, the normalcy that feels almost obscene now.

“tonight?” he asks. “the roof?”

you hesitate.

that rooftop is dangerous. it’s where the masks come off. where you stop pretending he’s just your coworker and you’re just doing your job.

but he looks like he’s barely holding himself together, and you know—you know—that he won’t let anyone else see it.

“tonight,” you agree.

the city is quieter after everyone has returned to their homes.

the roof smells like rain and concrete and ozone, like the air after something powerful has passed through.

clark is already there when you arrive. 

not superman. just clark. no cape. no boots. just a jacket pulled tight against the cold, hands tucked into his pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

that’s what guts you the most, every time.

the world thinks superman doesn’t need anyone.

clark kent looks like he needs you desperately.

“they’re still running it,” he says without turning around. “every channel. every site.”

you step up beside him, careful to keep space between you. “they will for a while.”

“i know.” he exhales. “i just didn’t realize how loud it would be.”

you watch the city lights flicker below, like a galaxy turned upside down.

“i keep thinking about what you asked,” he admits. “about breaking.”

you say nothing.

“if i did,” he continues quietly. “if something inside me, you know, changed.” he swallows. “would you be afraid of me?”

the question lands soft and devastating.

you turn toward him fully now. “clark.”

he flinches at his name—not because it hurts, but because it means you see him. not the myth. not the power.

“you’ve been called strong,” you say. “you’ve been called weak. you’ve been called everything in between.”

he lets out a shaky breath.

“but i know your secrets,” you continue. “and i’ll keep them. not because you’re superman—but because you’re you.”

he finally looks at you.

up close, his eyes are glassy. tired. human.

“you took for granted all the times i never let you down,” he says softly, like he’s confessing something. “and i didn’t even realize it.”

“you never let me down,” you say.

his laugh is quiet and broken. “you grilled me and then published an article within an hour.”

“and i still stood by you,” you reply. “both can be true.”

something shifts between you then. the tension that’s always been there—the glances held too long, the conversations that drifted dangerously close to personal—tightens, sharp and electric.

“you’re my anchor,” he says before he can stop himself.

the words hang there, fragile.

“you’re not supposed to need one,” you say, unsure of what else to add on. no words feel adequate at the moment.

“i know,” he replies. “that’s what scares me.”

he steps closer. not touching. never crossing that final line. but close enough that you can feel the warmth he gives off, steady and impossible.

“if i go crazy,” he murmurs, barely audible now, “will you still call me superman?”

you don’t answer right away. you reach out instead—slow, deliberate—and take his hand.

it’s warm. solid. real.

“if you go crazy,” you say, “i’ll still call you clark.”

his breath catches.

“and if i’m alive and well?” he asks.

you squeeze his hand. “i’ll be right here. holding on.”

for the first time since the video leaked—since the world tried to shove him into a destiny he never chose—clark kent leans into you like he’s allowed to rest.

and you realize, with a quiet, terrifying certainty, that you’re his kryptonite.

not the thing that kills him.

the thing that keeps him human.

the first crack happens three days later.

it’s small. practically microscopic. the kind of thing only people who are looking for failure would notice.

superman is pulling a collapsed commuter train out of the river when his grip slips. just for half a second.

no one dies. no one is even seriously hurt. the train scrapes the concrete embankment harder than it should, metal screaming loud enough to rattle windows six blocks away. a dozen phones catch the moment from different angles—his jaw clenched, his arms shaking, the unmistakable hitch in his motion.

by the time he sets the train down safely, the damage is already done.

SUPERMAN STUMBLES DURING RESCUE. FIRST SIGN OF FRACTURE? IS HE LOSING CONTROL? IS OUR CAPED CRUSADOR NOW A DANGER TO US ALL?

you read the headlines from your desk, stomach hollow.

across the bullpen, clark spills coffee all over his notes.

“sorry—sorry,” he murmurs, blotting at the paper like it personally offended him.

no one notices. no one ever does. that’s the cruelest part.

they’re dissecting superman’s body language on every screen in the office—slowing the footage down, circling the slip in red like it’s a crime scene—while clark kent sits ten feet away, quietly unraveling.

lois drops into the chair beside you, expression tight.

“he didn’t lose control,” she says under her breath.

“i know,” you reply.

“he hesitated,” she continues. “that’s different.”

you glance at her. “you think they’ll care?”

lois exhales sharply. “no. i think they’ve been waiting for this.”

across the room, perry barks orders into a phone. “no speculation—stick to verified facts—no, i don’t care what the blogosphere is saying—”

your screen lights up with a dozen emails at once.

what if the video is true? what if he’s weakening? what happens when superman decides we’re the problem?

you close your laptop. you already know who’s going to answer those questions.

and you already know how much it’s going to cost him.

he doesn’t text you. he doesn’t call.

by the time night falls, the silence is so loud it feels intentional.

you find him anyway.

the roof is empty when you arrive—too empty. the air feels wrong, like a held breath that’s gone on too long.

“clark?” you call softly.

nothing. then—wind.

not the dramatic kind. not the thunderous arrival metropolis is used to. just a quiet displacement of air behind you.

“i didn’t want you to see that.”

you turn.

superman stands a few feet away, cape hanging heavy from his shoulders like it’s soaked through. his hands are clenched, knuckles white.

“see what?” you ask.

he laughs, short and bitter. “that.”

he gestures vaguely. at the city, the headlines, himself.

“i froze,” he says. “for a second, i froze. and all i could think was: they were right.”

you step closer. “no, they weren’t.”

“i’ve never hesitated before,” he insists. “never. and now? after the video… after the questions—” his voice drops. “what if something did change?”

your chest tightens. “you didn’t freeze because you wanted to hurt anyone,” you say. “you froze because you were afraid of proving them right.”

his eyes flick to yours. “and that’s better?”

“yes,” you respond immediately. “because it means you care.”

he looks unconvinced. “i keep hearing your voice,” he admits. “on the roof. asking me what happens when i break.”

you swallow. “clark—”

“what if that was it?” he interrupts. “what if that moment, that slip, that was the beginning?”

he looks enormous standing there, impossibly strong, and somehow more fragile than you’ve ever seen him.

you reach for him before you can talk yourself out of it.

your hand lands on his arm. he stills instantly.

you’ve touched him before—accidentally, casually—but this is different. intentional. grounding.

“you’re not breaking,” you say firmly. “you’re hurting. there’s a difference.”

his breath stutters.

“you don’t get to decide that alone,” you continue. “not when the rest of us keep putting the weight of the world on your shoulders and calling it destiny.”

for a long moment, he says nothing.

then, quietly: “i don’t know how to do this without being superman.”

the confession slices straight through you.

“you don’t have to do it without being him,” you say. “you just don’t have to be only him.”

his eyes search your face like he’s looking for permission. for something dangerous.

“i’m so tired,” he whispers.

you step closer. close enough now that the space between you feels meaningless. “i know,” 

his forehead drops forward until it rests against yours.

the city disappears.

there’s no symbol. no headlines. no destiny written in alien glass.

just two people standing on a roof, holding each other up.

“if i lose them,” he murmurs. “if the world decides i’m the enemy—”

“then i’ll still be here,” you say. “and lois will. and the people you’ve saved who don’t have platforms or hashtags.”

he lets out a shaky breath. “you shouldn’t have to do this.”

“too late,” you reply softly. “i already am.”

his hands hover at your waist—not touching, always careful.

“you’re dangerous,” he says, almost smiling. “you know that?”

you huff quietly. “funny. they say the same about you.”

“no,” he says. “you’re worse.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“you make me want things,” he admits. “normal things. impossible things.”

your heart pounds. “like what?”

he hesitates. “like staying,” he says. “like choosing.”

the word lingers between you, electric.

before either of you can say more, his head snaps up.

sirens. far off—but urgent.

he pulls back, duty already reclaiming him.

“i have to—”

“i know,” you sigh.

he looks at you like he wants to apologize for a hundred things he hasn’t done yet.

“i’ll be back,” he promises.

you nod. “i’ll be here.”

he hesitates one last time.

then—so gently it almost doesn’t count—he presses his forehead to yours again.

and he’s gone.

the next morning, perry assigns you another superman piece.

you argue. briefly. futilely.

“they trust you,” he says. “whether they should or not.”

you sit at your desk afterward, staring at the blinking cursor.

across the room, clark types furiously, jaw tight, eyes rimmed red like he didn’t sleep.

no one connects the dots.

except lois, who watches you both like she’s counting heartbeats.

your phone buzzes.

‘did i mess everything up?’

you type back without hesitation. ‘no. you picked people over fear.’

a pause. then: ‘is that enough?’

you look up at him. at the man pretending to be ordinary. at the god pretending not to hurt.

you type: ‘it always has been.’

he looks at his phone. then, just for a second, he smiles.

and you realize the world may never stop testing him.

but as long as he keeps choosing humanity—as long as he keeps choosing you—he won’t float away to the dark side of the moon.

the leak hits at 9:12 a.m.

it’s not alien footage. it’s not another think piece dissecting superman’s microexpressions. it’s worse because it’s human.

ANONYMOUS SOURCE QUESTIONS SUPERMAN’S DUAL PRESENCE AT RESCUES AND DAILY PLANET. COINCIDENCE OR COVER? 

you feel it before you understand it. that cold, instinctive drop in your stomach. the kind that comes from knowing someone tugged the wrong thread.

across the bullpen, clark’s fingers stop moving.

he doesn’t look at the screen. he doesn’t have to. you can see the tension coil through him, sharp and immediate, like a muscle memory from disasters no one else remembers.

lois is on her feet in an instant.

“that’s thin,” she snaps, already skimming. “circumstantial at best.”

“it’s enough,” perry mutters from his office doorway. “enough to make noise.”

the article doesn’t say clark kent is superman. it doesn’t have to.

it points out overlapping timelines. near misses. a reporter mysteriously absent during three major incidents. it suggests—not accuses—that superman might have a “civilian anchor point” in metropolis media.

you close your eyes.

someone, somewhere, is learning how to look.

clark finally exhales, slow and controlled. he pushes back from his desk and stands.

“i’m grabbing coffee,” he says mildly.

no one questions it.

you’re on your feet before you realize you’ve moved. “i’ll come.”

from the outside, it looks normal. coworkers. friends. two reporters escaping the chaos for caffeine. but when the elevator doors close, the air shifts—heavy, electric.

“that was close,” you murmur.

clark stares at the floor. “too close.”

“you’re still safe,” you say quickly. “they don’t know. they’re guessing.”

“guessing turns into patterns,” he replies. “patterns turn into certainty.”

the elevator dings.

you don’t go to the cafe.

you go to the stairwell instead, pushing through the door and into the echoing quiet. the concrete walls smell faintly of dust and oil, the city muffled to a distant hum.

clark stops two steps in.

“i can’t keep doing this,” he says.

the words hit harder than any headline.

you turn to face him. “doing what?”

“lying,” he says. “hiding. watching you take hits meant for me.”

“that’s not—”

“it is,” he insists. his voice isn’t loud, but it’s shaking now. “every time you write about me, every time you defend me, you’re standing in front of the world while i stay behind the curtain.”

“that curtain keeps people alive,” you say.

“it’s starting to get people hurt,” he counters. “what happens when they connect you to me instead?”

the thought twists your chest. “clark,” you say softly. “look at me.”

he does.

“you are not ruining lives by existing,” you tell him. “you’re not betraying anyone by protecting yourself.”

“i’m tired of being afraid,” he admits.

the confession cracks something open between you.

you step closer. “then don’t be afraid alone.”

he laughs weakly. “that’s the problem. i don’t want you anywhere near this.”

“and yet,” you say, “here i am.”

he watches you like he’s memorizing your face. “if i stopped,” he says quietly. “if i walked away from being superman—”

your breath catches. “you can’t mean that.”

“i do,” he says. “at least for a while. let them breathe. let the noise die down.”

“and what about you?” you ask. “what happens to the part of you that needs to help?”

his jaw tightens. “i don’t know.”

you reach out, fingers brushing his sleeve. “running won’t make them stop,” you say. “and it won’t make you happier.”

he closes his eyes at the touch. “you’re my weakness,” he murmurs.

you smile sadly. “no. i’m your reminder.”

he opens his eyes. “of what?”

“that you get to choose,” you say. “not krypton. not earth. you.”

for a moment, it looks like he might kiss you. the tension is unbearable—every unsaid thing vibrating between you, dangerous and inevitable.

then lois’s voice echoes faintly from the stairwell above. “kent? you vanish again and i start assuming secret tunnels.”

clark exhales, stepping back.

the moment slips through your fingers like sand.

that night, superman doesn’t appear.

not when a bridge locks up during rush hour. not when a warehouse fire eats half a block. other heroes respond. planes divert. systems compensate.

but the absence is louder than any cape.

WHERE IS SUPERMAN? HERO NOWHERE TO BE SEEN—HAS HE ABANDONED US? DID HUMANITY PUSH HIM TOO FAR? 

you watch the city from your apartment window, phone clenched in your hand.

no texts. no calls.

you try not to imagine him somewhere alone, wrestling with the kind of silence that eats people alive.

when the knock comes, it nearly stops your heart.

you open the door.

clark stands there, soaked to the bone, glasses fogged, hair plastered to his forehead like he ran through a storm instead of flew above it.

“i needed—” he stops, swallowing. “i needed to see you.”

you pull him inside without a word.

the door clicks shut. the world narrows.

he paces once, then stops, hands braced on the back of your couch like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“i didn’t go,” he says. you can hear the guilty clinging to his words.  “i heard the calls. i felt them. and i stayed.”

your chest aches. “why?”

“because i was angry,” he admits. “because part of me wanted to prove i could walk away.”

“and?”

“and i hated it,” he says. “every second.”

you step closer.

“i kept thinking about what you said,” he continues. “about choosing. about not being only one thing.” he looks at you then—really looks—and something decisive settles in his expression. “i don’t want to stop being superman,” he says. “and i don’t want to keep pretending i don’t need anyone.”

your heart pounds.

“i don’t want to lose you,” he finishes.

the words are quiet. terrifying. honest.

you close the distance between you. “then don’t.”

he reaches out, tentative, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. his hand cups your cheek, warm and steady.

“tell me to stop,” he whispers.

you don’t.

when he kisses you, it’s not explosive—it’s reverent. like he’s afraid this moment might shatter if he breathes wrong.

you kiss him back anyway.

he exhales against your mouth, relief and longing tangled together, and for the first time since the video leaked—since the world tried to rewrite his story—clark lets himself be held.

later, when he rests his forehead against yours, you feel the weight shift again.

“tomorrow,” he says softly, “i go back.”

you nod. “tomorrow, i write the truth.”

he smiles faintly. “you always do.”

[thelordsoftherings]

[theladyeowyn]

‘They cannot conquer for ever!’ said Frodo.

[twunkish-cleric]

I feel so fucking old every time I go online. Like Google wtf is a Yumeship? What is Aura Farming, Google?? Google what does this abbreviation mean? Google please. I'm scared, Google

[binicoco]

fili in the hobbit trilogy

[shinraalpha]

i love how Gandalf invested in Hobbits in year one and has been pushing them ever since. Thorin, i hear you need help with a breaking and entering. Can I recommend one of these little cunts? Silent as fuck, trust me. Elrond my dude i know you're skeptical but these four chucklefucks just transported a weapon of mass destruction all the way here. Theoden, you've gotta get yourself a hobbit man, I've got a spare one here. Denathor you big prick, take a hobbit - literally this is the bottom of the range but listen to him sing. Beautiful little bastard.

[oakenshieldsimp-deactivated2026]

Acknowledging that Ori is BABEY doesn't mean infantilizing him (a lot of the fandom does)

Are we forgetting this is the dwarf that joined Balin to retake Moria?

And died writing the last few words in the Mazarbul book that Gandalf took from his corpse in The Lord of the Rings?

Ori is babey but he's not a baby. He's a warrior.

[luna-azzurra]

FACIAL MICRO EXPRESSIONS FOR WRITERS <3

[writingwithfolklore]

Writing Resources to use instead of AI

For coming up with character names:

Behind the name (my absolute fav)

Allows you to choose the origin of where you want the name to be from, whether you want a more feminine vs masculine vs androgenous name (as voted by users), random surname generator, and clicking on the name gives you important info like if there are any famous people with the same name, where it’s from, how common it is, and how people tend to see it, etc.

You can also search their name database by letter or meaning or origin, so if you know you want a character who has a name/surname that starts with an A from Ireland, there’s a whole list for you to choose from.

Census sites

Especially useful if you’re looking for a name from a specific place and/or time period. Just search “(country) census (year)” and you’ll find a database of real people who lived in that place at that time. No one can ever call your names unrealistic again.

For coming up with place names:

Fantasy name generator

This site can basically come up with any name for any person, place, or thing you might ever need. There are also specific generators for different fandoms if you’re looking to make an OC in an established world.

For finding that one word on the tip of your tongue:

One Look Thesaurus

This is my go-to. Not only can you find synonyms like a regular thesaurus, but you can also describe words like “unhappy smile” or “quiet laugh” to find the more specific word you’re looking for.

For coming up with ideas:

Word cloud

When I need to inspire a new idea, I write down all the things I’m interested in (hauntings, academia, lesbians, etc.) and put them into a word cloud to shuffle them next to each other. Sometimes seeing a concept in a new context can spark new ideas!

WWF Discord

This is my discord channel (shameless plug) for when you need to brainstorm off other people but don’t have anyone irl to talk to. We’re also happy to read and give feedback on writing, answer writing questions, or just chat!

For visualizing places and characters:

Pinterest

Pinterest can at times be a bit too sterile for my tastes, but if you use the right words, you can find more realistic photos of places. For example, adding “aesthetic” after basically any word will bring up a more broad collection of photos to help you flesh out places.

This is also a great way to find photos of people and fashion to help visualize characters. I’m bad at describing clothes, so I usually collect photos of outfits to help me know what my characters are wearing. Searching up “character inspiration” will collect more interesting photos and drawings of people who might not exactly be of our world.

(However, to make Pinterest not show you AI results, you have to go into your settings and check the “reduce AI” box. Luckily, it does mostly work.)

Death to Stock

Like pinterest but completely AI free (hooray!) Only drawback is that you have to pay a monthly subscription (about $20 CAD).

Cosmos

Very similar to pinterest but slightly more "artsy". I'm not super familiar with this one but I believe all the photos are human and you can save them and create collections with a free account.

Dupe Photos

Royalty-free stock image site with very Pinterest-core photos!

Minecraft

If you haven’t built your entire fictional city in Minecraft instead of writing, why not? It’s fun.

The Sims

This one is dual purpose because you can not only create your characters in Create a Sim, but you can design their houses. If you really want to go for it, you can bulldoze all the lots in your town and build your world from scratch.

For checking grammar:

Grammar Girl

Easy to follow definitions and examples, and if you learn better by listening, every article comes with a podcast to follow along with instead.

Grammar Monster

This one is my favourite for checking grammar rules because there’s tons of examples in graphics that helps for any situation.

Reedsy

Among other things, reedsy can connect you to professional editors within your budget.

For writing advice:

One Stop for Writers

This one was recommended from my discord channel and has all sorts of tutorials and resources for the writing craft.

My Blog Directory

Another shameless plug, but if you need writing advice on something specific, you can search through my directory to see if it’s there. If it isn’t, you can always send me an ask about it!

For an alternative to Google Docs:

Ellipsus

Think google docs but without AI. Yay!

(will update this list with any more suggestions or resources I discover 😊)

[just-a-readthrough]

A great resource

[crunchbuttsteak]

[imnotrevealingmyname]

You can only reblog this on the 3st of January

[official-lucifers-child]

the 3st huh?

[transgirlsgetswords-deactivated]

the 3st.

[lost-in-eriador]

in 2026, remember how GOOD writing feels. remember how satsfying it is to get your characters to the point you have been dying to get to, where they will experience the love, fear, relief or whatever the feeling you want to bring to life may be. let this year be the year of writing, prgress and of satisfactory endings.

[lovely-v]

Every time Sean Astin makes a statement on whether or not Sam and Frodo were indeed gay for each other in lord of the rings he’s always like “well we have to acknowledge that attitudes around sexuality have changed dramatically over the past several decades and since authorial intent is only up to speculation, the story is open to multiple readings, some of which might have different significances for different groups of people also they kiss on the lips because I said so”

[busket]

at the rose city comic con panel this month a fan asked them (sean and elijah) if sam and frodo were in love and they said

Sean: .....yes. absolutely

Elijah: 100 percent.

Sean: dont tell rosie

[explorerrowan]

Rosie: "This is my husband Sam, and that's his husband, Frodo. Frodo is my husband-in-law. I'm not into him, he's he's a bit too 'elfy' for my taste, but Sam likes him, and that's fine with me. As far as I know, Frodo can't give Sam children, but Frodo looks after ours all the same, so I don't mind sharing Sam if it means another pair of eyes on the wee ones. In all honesty, our family tree is right simple compared to some hobbits. Yes, I'm referrin' to you Lobelia, over there pretendin' you ain't eavesdroppin'. Still bitter you ain't got either of my boys or their house, eh?"

[arcaniumagi2]

[ms-katonic-of-tamriel]

Tbh it's canon that Frodo invited Sam and Rosie to move in to Bag End after their wedding and they all lived there for a couple of years until Frodo went to Valinor, so yeah. Running with it.

And once Rosie dies, Sam says his goodbyes and disappears after him.

[roach-works]

what’s funny is people assuming that rosie would somehow be too dim or naive to KNOW that sam loved frodo, instead of looking at a guy who would loyally follow a beloved friend to hell and then help carry him home again, and not be like ‘oh i can’t not fuck that.’

[elodieunderglass]

Polyamory, specifically polyandry, would be an interesting solution to the oddball population of the Shire.

The Shire is excellent farming country, with consistently good weather, and only one tough winter in living memory; hobbits like to produce large families; they’re resistant to disease, rarely violent, and encounter few dangers. It is usual for hobbits to produce many children, so that (for example) Bilbo and Frodo are unusual in both being only children, with no siblings, and not having children of their own. All of this should point to a population that increases every generation if not doubling outright. Young people (and their ideologies!) should rapidly outnumber the old with an ever-increasing effect and impact on society. However, the Shire has a surprisingly stable history; it never seems to increase or decrease greatly in population, and the bell curve of age seems… demographically balanced? There certainly isn’t a conflict from rising young bloods challenging the middle-aged reactionaries; there’s no unemployment; there are no housing crises or waves of emigration, or even a tendency for young people leaving home to marry. Meanwhile, not only does the Shire not suffer from internal pressures, but it remains obscure and hardly noticed in global politics.

What makes sense here is that adult hobbits form a loose group. Four parents in a polycule, between them all, may produce four children. All four parents claim to have four children. An outsider would assume this meant the adults had eight children.

Hobbits therefore are not especially fertile or fecund. They simply have large families. Much of their interest in genealogy is due to the complex relationships of blood-kin, hearth-kin, love-kin and pledge-kin, who must all be carefully tracked and measured - not just because you need to make sure that you don’t climb into bed with an un-permitted degree of blood-kin, but to track family alliances and carefully quantify the precise level of thoughtfulness to put into the proper present to gift your father’s lover’s lover (too much implies a degree of intimacy that might upset the polycule.)

Thus, while a hobbit matron may tell a startled dwarf that she has seven sons, she might only have borne five of them herself, and have one hearth-son by her wife, and a pledge-son of her first husband’s. There are between three and four fathers involved at various stages of production, from conception to pledge-duty, but there is debate about the precise number of fathers, as one child was festival-conceived and therefore provisionally pledged to the Brandybucks until more distinctive paternal traits should materialise. It’s expected that four of the sons will be uninterested in women, and their contribution to family life will be in raising hearth-children and pledge-duty. However, this level of detail is normally negotiated later in conversation, as a mutual overture of friendship. So she’s just clear and simple: yes, certainly, she has seven sons. Yes, they’re all hers. Yes, that’s fairly normal - yes, hobbits like big families. How big? That’s really hard to say! Well, about thirteen hobbits live in her house… er, she has forty-three nieces and nephews. Yes! She has nine siblings, that’s correct, but some of them are still babies themselves..

In this way, a bewildered dwarf might assume that hobbits are absurdly fertile, producing an average of seven children per couple, at an absurd pace.

When in fact, with about half of hobbits never bearing biological children, the population of hobbits is pretty much always the same.

Tl:dr, hobbit population works perfectly well, both internally and in the perceptions of outsiders, if the majority of the Shire is gay, they’re all polyamorous, and they all firmly claim to be parents of high numbers of children. Of course Frodo fathered Sam’s kids - he named them! They were pledge-kin but not hearth-kin, as Frodo needed a lot of quiet and stability in the home.

No outsider ever parses hobbit genealogy well enough to understand this except for Gandalf, who never explains anything either.

[dancingspirals]

are you kidding? Gandalf would WEAPONIZE his knowledge of Hobbit genealogy against outsiders

[elodieunderglass]

Since “pledge” kinships are multidimensional and can occur in different directions, hobbits can form - and formalise - family bonds simply because they choose to. Gandalf doesn’t tell anyone that the formation of Thorin’s Company, the Fellowship of the Ring, and Belladonna Took’s Accidental Troop of Mercenaries* are legal formations of pledge-siblings, a hobbit family structure usually claimed to increase social class and prestige (as high numbers of pledge-kin confer distinction on a hobbit, being a sort of popularity vote/endorsement that adds greatly to their social power. Incidentally, this is partly why Bilbo was both controversial and successful in his pledge-claim of Frodo; outsiders mistook his “bachelor” status as someone living outside of heteronormativity, while the Shire was bewildered and increasingly annoyed by his rejection of pledge and hearth commitments. By rights Bilbo had too few pledge-kin, and too little parenting experience, to claim rights to an orphan, especially one from Brandybuck hearth; but conversely, his social status was high enough that his belated bid for his very first pledge-son couldn’t reasonably be denied by anybody.)

In short, all of the hobbits enjoyed achieving even larger families on their adventures, legally and without argument or debate. It’s free real estate. If nobody else is going to sibling these losers, we will. (The condensation of so many entanglements at once also legally made Pippin his own father-in-law.)

Gandalf never explained.

* see the post about the Old Took’s “enchanted diamond cufflinks” that obeyed the wearer’s commands; which were probably, given the general state of things, two lost silmarils recovered by his Remarkable Daughters and gifted to him because things stay small and safe in the shire

[chaosaccountant]

@elodieunderglass wouldn't that make pippin both denethor's pledge-son-in-law, and (as pledge-brother to the king) probably outrank him?

[elodieunderglass]

Only through Boromir while Boromir was alive! Pippin’s familial claim through Boromir technically dissolved on Boromir’s death, as Denethor hadn’t been privy to it, and those bonds rarely stretch to a stranger when the person in the middle has died before introducing them; although Pippin, who was well-brought-up, perfectly and politely rectified the problem at once by simply swearing himself as Denethor’s pledge-son. but through his blood-cousinship to Frodo, who was older than Boromir, his status as the Took double-primarc (don’t ask) and the proximity-enhanced status-doubling effects of having a five-way cousin in Merry, Pippin was demonstrably higher status as a pledge-sibling and was also his own father-in-law and approved of himself. As such, he would have significantly raised Boromir’s social status and marital prospects in the Shire.

Inheritance follows parent-child pledge as the primary consideration, with matrilineal descent as the secondary. Pippin would have been bewildered to gradually understand that Denethor held his two sons in such odd and different standing :-/ hobbits don’t recognise kingship so it would’ve been very upsetting and disappointing to Pippin to understand how Denethor stood in position of sworn-father to a whole city of people without even being slightly fair to his younger hearth-son. Aragorn is demonstrably much better dad-material and therefore had Pippin’s vote. Pippin, by virtue of being an excellent father-in-law to a spectacularly promising young son-in-law, also considered himself a better candidate for king of Gondor than Denethor, by outranking him in Dad Competence - but was too busy by the time he realized this to point this out .

Ironically, the events in which Pippin realized this made Faramir his own hearth-son - so Pippin won in the end and took a great interest in ceremonially approving of Eowyn. Gandalf never explained

[elodieunderglass]

[tkingfisher]

I will buy that for a dollar, yup.

[deafmangoes]

It crossed my dash again! The Hobbit Polyamory Post!

[segamascott]

Why the fuck are you 30+ on tumblr

this is my house?

[grungixfungi]